Calloused Hands and Smooth Surfaces
by johnsarmylady
Summary: A one shot of a relationship, a separation, a half-life, a reunion and a return to normality - well, when I say normal...not a word I use often for Sherlock and John. A short piece of suggestive prose for a Sunday afternoon :) Over rated at M, because I worry that T isn't quite enough :)


**I couldn't help it, this just presented itself and wouldn't leave me alone.  
As ever, I don't own these characters, but we have such fun playing :)**

Years of playing the violin had put callouses his finger-tips, not the rough, coarse callouses of manual labour but slightly hardened pads that were totally at odds with the smooth surfaces of the rest of his body.

In the years since their relationship slipped from friends to lovers, Sherlock had played him like his violin, drawing from him the sounds of love and of satisfaction, of a soul happy to be captured in another's hands.

Then he lost his way as he watched the man who held his soul plummet from the rooftop, and for two years he existed; no-one could be said to be living when the person for whom they lived was gone, and had taken their heart with them.

In those intervening years John discovered who his true friends were. They weren't the ones who said time will heal, that he'd forget and move on. They were the ones who sat with him as he cried, took him out for a drink when the flat became too claustrophobic, and put him to bed when he was too drunk to do it himself. Those same friends then sat and watched over him to make sure he remained safe.

For twenty-four months he hibernated within the shell that was once John Watson, Soldier, Doctor, once noted for having lovers over three continents. There was only one continent that mattered now, and only one lover, and he walked a fine line between waiting and following.

And while this half-life – try as it might – didn't kill him, the shock of Sherlock's return nearly did for them both.

xXx

With rock steady nerves he had pointed his gun at the younger man's chest.

"You're dead." His voice was flat, lifeless and cold.

"I will be if you pull that trigger." The response was soft but unmistakable. John would recognise those dulcet tones anywhere.

For a long moment neither moved in this frozen tableau, so many questions were running through John's mind, and they could be read with searing clarity by the 'ghost' who stood before him.

"To say I'm sorry would be an understatement, but it's where I need to start." Sherlock didn't move, didn't take his eyes from the man opposite him. "It will take time to explain, but if you will let me I'll try to show you that there was no other way."

"You can't have done this on your own." Realisation widened his eyes. He watched, horrified, as Sherlock shook his head.

"I needed to help to get you out of the way, somewhere safe….."

"Who knew?" John forced the words out.

"Mycroft….. Molly….."

"Molly?"

"I had no choice." The dark head hung now, the almost shoulder-length curls gleaming in the harsh artificial light of the living room of 221B Baker Street. "Things…. my plans went somewhat awry. I hadn't meant to leave you for so long – I hadn't meant to leave you at all."

John didn't reply, and Sherlock drew in a deep breath.

"I'm sorry John, I'll go…"

A soft whine forced its way from the older man's throat and he lowered the gun, staggering forward to collapse into his lover's arms…..

xXx

Three weeks. That was all it took to finally wipe away the pain, such was the level of love and trust these men had for each other.

Three weeks to convince one that his lover wasn't dead and to convince the other that the nightmare of self-imposed exile was truly over.

Both had taken time to study the physical toll their separation had taken on each other, both had lost weight, Sherlock carried a few extra scars while John's blond hair had gained more than a smattering of grey.

Over the weeks they re-learned each other, falling easily into back into their life, and their love.

Those friends that had watched over John breathed a sigh of relief as his smiles returned, while in his Whitehall office Sherlock's brother happily relinquished that young man's care to the man who valued him above everything.

And in the twilight of their bedroom, in the warmth of a summer evening John knelt, his back bearing the weight of his lover, while Sherlock, with his calloused hands and smooth surfaces, played him with the same expertise with which he played his violin.


End file.
